


so shine a light and guide me home

by sxldato



Category: White Collar
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Guilt, Hurt Neal, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Sickfic, Vomiting, and I'm going to hell, and he can't take care of himself, god bless the burke family tbh, i'm literal trash, neal is a big stubborn baby, neal would be dead like 100 times if it weren't for the burkes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could use the rest of his life to offer his apologies for all that he’d done, and it still wouldn’t be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so shine a light and guide me home

**Author's Note:**

> so i watched all six seasons in like. a month. and then this happened  
> i exercised some judgement though like i made myself wait on writing a fic until i got through the third season and then i just lost all control and 5k words happened.  
> this is absolute garbage and i don't know why i gravitate towards pouty white boys with dark hair and pale eyes so much but i'm having a fucking good time doing it so whatever man  
> does anyone even care about this show i mean it only ended last year so it's more current than political animals but still i mean. i jumped on this bandwagon pretty fucking late.  
> title is from "As Much As I Ever Could" by City and Color  
> edit: so i went through it and. guys. GUYS. WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SOMETHING THERE WERE SO MANY TYPOS

A similarity between being a conman and working for the bureau were the first and second most important rules. One: don’t fuck up. Two: if you _do_ fuck up, which _will_ happen at some point or another, take care of the problem before it fucks everything _else_ up. If you don’t, you’ll probably die.

Neal was fucking up so badly right now, and he wasn’t sure this was the kind of problem he could fix quickly.

He hadn’t been sick in years, could barely recall what it felt like until today. Now he remembered the trembling of his hands, the stifling heat that seemed to come from within, and the insistent ache in the pit of his stomach. If it weren’t for his unyielding pride, he would have stayed home; but he knew Peter would think he was up to something, and he didn’t blame him. He just didn’t think he could deal with the berating or the suspicious looks in his current condition.

It felt like someone was taking an icepick to his temples, and the fluorescent glow of the computer screen in front of him was only exacerbating the pain. Everything ached, and even moving remotely was torture. It was like the past decade of flu seasons where he hadn’t gotten sick were coming back to bite him in the ass all at once.

The bright side was that he was filling out a case report, so no one had any reason to bother him. There was an exception, however, which took the form of one Peter Burke; Neal could feel him watching from his office above the bullpen. He tried to ignore Peter’s incessant gaze, cradling his head in his palm as he stared at the files without really reading them. The letters swam around the page and he couldn’t concentrate.

“Neal.”

He hadn’t even realized that Peter had been making his way over to him; he must have been sicker than he’d thought. “Need something, Peter?”

Peter was doing that thing with his face, that thing that said, ‘you’re up to something and I don’t know what it is but I’ll figure it out because I’m Peter Burke.’ Normally it didn’t matter, sometimes it was funny if he was enough steps ahead, but that was only when he was _actually_ playing a game. There were no games today, no tricks—if pretending he was okay didn’t count as a kind of trick, that is.

“I need you to do some digging into the two fences we found yesterday—“ the slap when the files hit his desk was abnormally loud and it reverberated through his skull. “See if you can find out who would want them dead and why.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

Peter stared at him some more, and Neal tried to look annoyed instead of exhausted. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Peter’s brows had knit together in the middle, but he made his way back to his office. Neal exhaled slowly and began flipping through the files.

His first mistake was turning to the page with the details of the murders. His next mistake was letting his eyes land on the pictures from the crime scene.

There were many explanations for why he had a strong distaste for guns, and for murder in general; but one of the biggest reasons was that the sight of someone’s brains or guts splattered across the floor made him unbelievably sick to his stomach. He’d already been having a hard enough time keeping his insides _inside_ him, but the graphic images were the last straw. His stomach did a slow, nauseating flip, and he pressed his knuckles to his mouth to stifle the gag that was rising in his throat. He had this under control. He could fight it back down.

Then he tasted bile at the back of his mouth. He let the papers fly across his desk as he pushed himself out of his chair, staggering out of the office and making a beeline for the men’s bathroom.

The impact of the tile hurt when he collapsed to his knees inside the stall. He was so cold, but a rush of heat swept up from the small of his back all the way to his neck, and he lurched forward and retched. Neal coiled one arm around his stomach, using the other to grip the toilet as he choked up more of the contents of his stomach. If he weren’t in so much pain, he’d be feeling embarrassed, but he didn’t have the capacity to feel anything other than nauseated right now.

It subsided eventually, but his stomach still felt bloated and tight, and he was afraid to leave the safety of the bathroom. He sat back, loosening the neck of his tie, and rested his head against the stall wall.

This was bad. This was so, so bad. Peter was counting on him and he couldn’t trust himself to move further than five feet away from this toilet. He couldn’t let Peter down; he’d done that too many times already. People had been killed, and chances were that _more_ people would too, if he didn’t pull himself together.

Neal pulled on the lever to flush the toilet and carefully got to his feet. His knees were buckling, but he kept his hand on the wall to steady himself. He was able to make it out of the stall before his stomach turned over again and he was left dry heaving over one of the sinks. His hands were shaking with the strength it took to hold himself up, and after he was done, he let himself slide to the floor.

After a solid thirty seconds of taking deep controlled breaths to settle the nausea still stirring in his chest, he came to the conclusion that he couldn’t stay there. For one thing, someone could come in and see him, but he also needed to start investigating those two fences. He couldn’t let anyone else die.

Getting to his feet should not have been as difficult as it was. His face was pale and sweaty, and his eyes were bloodshot. He dried his face with a paper towel and tried to scrub some color back into his cheeks. It didn’t work. He was so screwed. As soon as Peter found out, he’d make him go home, and that _couldn’t_ happen.

He wasn’t sure he could con his way out of this one, but he could at least try.

-

It was hard to pretend he felt perfectly fine when there was an odd pressure on his brain, and despite feeling like a walking furnace, he couldn’t stop shaking. If it weren’t for the persistent ache in his stomach, Neal had no doubt he would have been able to fake his way through the rest of work. But unlike what he’d assumed would happen, he actually felt _worse_ after throwing up.

There wasn’t much he could do to alleviate the pain discretely. He had half a mind to slide out of his chair and curl up on the floor until this went away, but even in his fevered haze, he knew that was a really stupid idea if he wanted to stay here.

The documents Peter had asked him to look at weren’t helping. The numbers jumbled in his head and the details of the murders seemed to be on every page, making his stomach turn uneasily. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t sort through all this information the way he normally could; the organization system in his head had turned off, and there was nowhere to put any of this material. He could read the words, but they wouldn’t register in his head. Nothing was making sense.

He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep at his desk until Peter was shaking him awake. He sat bolt upright, sending the papers he’d been attempting to work on scattering through the air.

“I’m doing what you asked, I promise, don’t take me back to jail,” Neal blurted.

“What—Neal, you’re not going to jail.” Peter was doing that suspicious thing with his face again, but Neal was focusing too much on not puking on Peter’s shoes to care. “What’s going on?”

“I’m—“ Neal sifted through the mass of loose papers on his desk, looking for the ones Peter had given him that morning. “—I’m doing research on the, uh, the fences, the murders—you asked me to do it, I’m doing it, I swear—“

Peter’s hand was on his forehead and Neal tried not to lean into his touch. “You’re running a fever.”

“No, stop.” Neal half-heartedly pushed Peter’s hand away. “I can do this.”

“Dammit, Neal, you’re sick and you’re going home.” Peter had that no-nonsense tone that made it very clear that Neal could not bargain his way out of this.

“You can’t make me go home,” he protested. “You can’t, I have to finish this, I _have_ to, or more people are gonna die and—“

“We can get someone else to do it.”

“But it won’t be _me_ —“

“You’re oddly self-centered you’re sick.”

“No, no, you—you asked _me_ to do it, and I can’t let you down.”

Peter’s expression softened marginally. “You’re not letting me down, Neal. You’re sick; it happens.”

“Not sick,” he insisted. “Just let me get this done.” He almost tacked on a ‘please’ to the end of that sentence, but he had to turn away to cough roughly into his elbow. The effort made his chest tighten up, and a stinging sensation spread through his ribs.

Peter’s brows furrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest. “You didn’t get a flu vaccination, did you?”

“I did not.” Neal figured the only reason Peter didn’t say “dammit, Neal” again was because he’d limited himself to only one uttering of that phrase per conversation.

“Don’t tell me it’s because you don’t like hospitals.”

“They keep you in their records forever,” Neal said, swallowing the metallic taste at the back of his throat and ignoring the aching it caused in his stomach. “I can’t risk that, can’t risk people finding me.”

“How many people want you dead, Neal?”

“Being a conman doesn’t exactly make you a popular guy. Now can you let me get back to work?”

“No, I can’t.” The familiar click of handcuffs resonated in Neal’s head, and he looked down to see Peter putting the other cuff on his own wrist.

“You do know I can pick this in thirty seconds, right?”

“Of course.” Peter was looking all too satisfied with himself. “But not when you barely have the strength to stand up.”

“… You’re a terrible person.”

He hadn’t known how sore his body was until he had to walk to Peter’s car. Putting one foot in front of the other was getting harder and harder, and painful cramps were wrapping around the muscles in his guts. He kept thinking about how much he could possibly humiliate himself in front of Peter; the tie was between vomiting in something that wasn’t a trashcan or a toilet and becoming delirious from a spiking fever, both of which were fairly plausible.

Neal forced himself to stay awake until the bureau was out of sight. Then he let himself sink back into the seat and lean his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home.”

Neal wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was too spent to ask any further questions.

-

It felt like a second had passed when his eyes fluttered open again and his gaze focused on Peter and Elizabeth’s house.

“Peter, no.”

“I wasn’t about to take you back to your room at June’s and leave you there by yourself,” Peter protested. “I want to keep an eye on you.”

“That doesn’t mean you let me stay at your house—“ He broke off, doubling over himself as he coughed. The strain it took was hurting his already agitated stomach, and he prayed to whatever was listening that he would get through this with what little dignity he had left.

Peter’s hand rested on his spine. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”

“But Peter—“

“Come on.”

The journey from the car to the front door had him developing a personal vendetta against stairs. Each step sent cramps running up his legs and settling in his hips. It was like he’d aged fifty years in the past hour. Peter was carrying most of his weight, but he still moved as if there were bricks tied to his ankles.

Peter fumbled for his keys while still trying to keep Neal upright, but eventually they got inside and Peter sat Neal down on the couch.

“Peter?” Elizabeth’s voice came from upstairs, and Neal shrank in on himself. He couldn’t be here, couldn’t get in the way, couldn’t wedge himself between Peter and Elizabeth the way he was all too afraid he already had.

“Yeah, I’m home early,” Peter called up to her, motioning impatiently for Neal to sit back down when he tried to get up.

“Did something happen at work…?” Elizabeth trailed off as she reached the bottom of the staircase and her eyes landed on Neal. “Is everything alright?”

“Neal never got vaccinated and now he’s sick,” Peter explained. His hands were on his hips, right above the belt loop of his pants, just like always. “I couldn’t leave him alone at June’s, so—“

“So he handcuffed me and took me here against my will,” Neal said.

Elizabeth approached Neal and he did his best not to shy away from her. Her hands, like Peters, were soft when they touched him. Her palm brushed against his forehead and then her lips followed shortly afterwards. His eyes darted over to Peter, looking for any signs of anger, but all he could see was worry.

“You definitely have a fever,” Elizabeth said. “And you look pale… have you gotten sick?”

This wasn’t an interrogation and he wasn’t in danger here, but he still wanted to lie. Except he hated lying to Elizabeth.

“Uh… yeah.” He took great care to focus on his hands and not look at either of their faces. “At work, maybe two or three hours ago.”

“And you wanted to stay at the bureau after that?” Peter asked. There was still no anger in his voice and Neal was having a hard time understanding why.

“I told you, I had to finish that research.”

“I’ll get you some water,” Elizabeth offered, petting his hair back before hurrying off to the kitchen. “Honey, would you go get some spare blankets from the hall closet?”

Peter was off and up the stairs and Neal was alone on the couch. The handcuffs were gone; he could run now, take a taxi back to June’s and hide out there until this passed. That plan, of course, depended on him being able to walk more than ten paces without going down face-first onto the pavement outside.

He decided he was better off right where he was.

Elizabeth returned with a tall glass of water in one hand and a large silver mixing bowl in the other. “Just in case,” she said, setting it next to the couch where Neal could easily reach it if needed. “Do you want to take off your suit?”

He wanted that more than almost anything else right now, but even he wasn’t confident enough to strip down in front of Elizabeth, and especially not Peter.

“Am I allowed to?” The words left his mouth before he could think them through.

“Of course. Here, I’ll help you.”

Neal was able to get out of his jacket on his own, but his fingers were shaking and he couldn’t undo his tie or the buttons on his shirt, so Elizabeth did that for him. This wasn’t his lowest moment, not by a long shot, but he still felt ashamed—ashamed that Peter didn’t trust him to take care of himself, ashamed that Peter was probably right, and ashamed that he was constantly screwing things up for the Burkes.

“I’m sorry—about all this,” he mumbled as he struggled to free himself from the legs of his pants.

“It's no trouble, I promise.” Elizabeth tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and untwisted one of the straps of his undershirt. “We’re happy to help with whatever you need.”

He wasn’t sure a simple thank you would cover just how grateful he was for her and for Peter, but he said it anyways and then busied himself with taking small sips from the glass of water.

Peter returned with a pile of blankets draped over his arm along with a pillow that Neal knew was from Peter and Elizabeth’s bed upstairs and set them on the couch. “We’re gonna set you up down here; that sound good?”

Neal wanted to say that they didn’t need to set him up _anywhere_ , that he could go home and let them have a peaceful afternoon, but at this point he doubted it would serve any purpose.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

He watched silently as Peter spread the blankets out over the couch, only moving when Peter needed to tuck the blankets underneath him. There was still one left when Peter seemed finished making the bed, and Neal wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be for until Peter unfolded it and draped it around Neal’s trembling shoulders. There was a new tightness in his chest, one that Neal didn’t think came from illness.

“You should lie down, try and get some rest,” Peter said, and before Neal could protest, Peter was guiding him down to rest his head on the pillow at the other end of the couch. Neal wanted to say something, anything, but the words were sticking to the inside of his mouth.

Peter’s fingers ran through his hair, and Neal could feel a slight tug each time a few strands got caught in Peter’s wedding ring.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, blinking back the moisture in his eyes.

He never had an issue with guilt when he broke the law, but when his actions hurt Peter, hurt Elizabeth… He could use the rest of his life to offer his apologies for all that he’d done, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“It’s not your fault—just get a flu shot next year, okay?”

“No, no, I’m sorry for… for all of it.” His gaze flickered to Elizabeth; she needed to hear this, too. “For everything.”

Peter and Elizabeth’s obvious deep concern wasn’t helping Neal’s level of shame. Peter was completely still for a while, then nodded a little to himself and left the room. Elizabeth was smiling, but in a sad way, the way only Elizabeth could really execute.

“Just yell if you need anything,” Elizabeth said, and followed Peter out, but not before kneeling down in front of him and pressing another kiss to his forehead.

Neal drew the blanket up to his chin and curled in on himself, wondering what exactly he did to deserve the Burkes. It was certainly nothing he’d done in this life.

-

When he woke up, he couldn’t remember where he was for a moment, but then he saw Satchmo sitting in the dining room and the fear evaporated from his body. He was weak and sick, but at least he was safe; that wasn’t something he could say for himself very often.

His stomach clenched suddenly and he groaned aloud before he could stop himself.

“Neal?” Peter emerged from the kitchen. “You alright?”

He felt like he had the life expectancy of the next ten minutes, so there was really no point in lying. “It hurts…”

Peter crossed the room in three long strides and knelt beside the couch. “Where does it hurt? I could get you some aspirin, or Ibuprofen—“

The idea of putting anything in his mouth made his stomach turn over, and he struggled to push himself into a sitting position. “I feel sick… really queasy…”

“Do you need to throw up?”

“… Don’t want to…”

“I didn’t think you would, but you might _need_ to.” Peter reached for the bowl next to the couch and set it in Neal’s lap. “Come on, it’s okay. Try and relax. Focus on breathing.”

Neal groaned again and buried his face in his hands. “’S embarrassing…”

“We’ve all been sick before; nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Neal peered at Peter from around his fingers. “But I shouldn’t be here.”

Peter looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“You and Elizabeth… this—this is your life, _your_ life, and I’m putting myself in the middle of all of it.” He swallowed back a gag. He wouldn’t get sick. He wouldn’t. “And that’s not fair to you guys.”

“Neal, if I wasn’t prepared to have someone else in my life that I needed to look after, I wouldn’t have agreed to your contract.”

“You shouldn’t _have_ to look after me—“

“But I do, and that’s okay. This is what I signed up for.”

Neal wanted to argue, but then his stomach was in his throat and he was forced to double over the bowl as he retched. There wasn’t much for him to throw up other than water and bile, so he was gagging more than anything else, and for some reason that made it even more humiliating.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

Neal choked, fighting back the urge to be sick and failing miserably as he dry-heaved. His fingers curled around something warm—Peter’s hand. He was holding Peter’s hand, and he wanted to yell at himself to let go, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He needed Peter’s comfort, Peter’s stability, because right now he felt like he was going to fall apart.

“Deep breaths, Neal. C’mon, breathe with me.”

Peter’s directions gave Neal something to focus on other than the lingering nausea, calmed him enough that he no longer felt like he needed to cough up his entire stomach. His eyes were watering from the exertion it had taken to vomit, and he wiped away any possible traces of tears with shaking hands.

“That’s it, see? You’re alright.”

“You sound just like her,” Neal rasped.

“Who?”

“My mom.”

He wished he didn’t remember her, wished he could forget the feeling of security that came with her arms wrapped around him, the way she would kiss the crown of his head and smooth his hair down, the way she told him he would be alright. He wanted to forget all of it; it hurt too much to remember.

Peter was very quiet, just kept rubbing Neal’s back as they sat in silence. Finally, he said, “She loved you, Neal. I promise she did.”

He really didn’t want to cry. He welcomed the idea of getting sick again more than the idea of crying in front of Peter. “I know.”

“I’m gonna clean this up, okay?”

“Peter—“

“Don’t even try to argue,” Peter cut him off, taking the bowl from him and heading to the bathroom around the corner. “You’re not getting up any time soon, especially not to do this.”

Neal watched, rather helplessly, as Peter disappeared and the sound of running water floated into the room.

“Peter, I’m sorry,” he croaked, not sure he could be heard until the water stopped and Peter responded.

“Stop apologizing.”

“But—“

“No.” Peter reappeared and made his way back over to Neal with the bowl in his hand, looking impossibly clean after what had just happened. That no-nonsense expression was back on Peter’s face, but it was gentler, more insisting than it was demanding. “Lie down, try and go back to sleep. El’s gonna check up on you in a little bit—“

“Where are you going?” Neal asked, a second afterwards realizing how childish he sounded and hating himself a little for it.

“I need to go back to the bureau for a while,” Peter said. “Just for a few hours to get things sorted out. I’ll be home before you know it.”

Home. _His_ home, not Neal’s. Right?

Neal must have still looked worried, because Peter added, “El’s gonna take good care of you—better than I could.”

Neal wanted to say that Peter actually had a pretty decent bedside manner and wasn’t as awkward as he obviously thought himself to be, but he doubted Peter would believe him. That was the problem with being a conman; people thought he lied on impulse instead of for a good reason.

“Don’t run off while I’m gone,” Peter said, and Neal was too dazed to know if he was joking or not.

“Can’t exactly ‘run off’ if you’re tracking my every move.”

He thought he saw Peter smile, but it was all a blur and nothing was making very much sense. “I’ll be back soon.”

Then he could have sworn Peter kissed him on the crown of his head, just like his mom used to, but he was out the door before Neal could ask to make sure.

-

His eyelids fluttered.

“Neal?”

He moaned, turned over, tried to go back to sleep.

“Neal, you need to have something to drink.”

Even in his half-asleep state, he recognized that voice, and forced himself to wake up completely. “Elizabeth?”

She was sitting in a chair next to the couch; she must have pulled it closer so she could keep a better eye on him. There was a book on the coffee table that hadn’t been there before—she’d been reading, waiting for him to wake up. “How are you feeling?”

The longer he was awake, the more aware he became of a sharp pain in his chest. “Not good.”

“Can you sit up for me?”

Elizabeth Burke could tell him to kill someone and odds were that he’d do it. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring how his arms shook, and used the couch for support as he sat up all the way.

“I checked your fever, and it looks like it’s gone down a bit,” Elizabeth told him as she pressed a glass of water into one of his hands, eyeing the way he was using the other one to rub his sternum. “Does your chest hurt?”

“Don’t take me to the hospital,” he pleaded.

“I won’t take you to the hospital,” Elizabeth promised. “It’s probably just heartburn from when you got sick, nothing to worry about—drinking something cold might help,” she added, gesturing to the water.

“What if I throw up?” He asked weakly.

“Then we’ll take care of you. Please, Neal? I don’t want you getting dehydrated.”

He couldn’t say no to Elizabeth. He drank half the glass, slowly, before setting it on the coffee table and drawing his legs up to his chest. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“It’s no problem at all.”

Neal was quiet, listening for the quiet sounds of someone else in the house, but there were none. “Is Peter still gone?”

“He’ll be home in an hour or so.” Elizabeth paused, searching Neal’s face with worry. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m…” He wasn’t okay; he was so, _so_ far from okay. “He told me not to apologize anymore.”

“Honey, that’s because you didn’t do anything wrong. This isn’t your fault.”

“You call him that.”

Elizabeth looked confused, and Neal didn’t understand why she and Peter didn’t realize how _wrong_ this was. “What, you mean ‘honey?’”

“Yeah, it’s—“ Breathing, he needed to remember to keep doing that, he needed to breathe even if it hurt—“he told me the story, about that being how you guys say ‘I love you’ to each other, and—“ He could feel himself losing it, could feel the urge to cry rising in his lungs, but he couldn’t make himself calm down. “You shouldn’t be calling me that, too, and I shouldn’t be here, screwing things up—“

“Neal, look at me.”

The firmness in Elizabeth’s voice caught him off guard.

“You are part of our family,” she said, her wide blue eyes staying right on his, never wavering. “Peter and I both care about you and love you very, very much. You’re not ruining anything, and you are absolutely allowed to be here. This is your home, too.”

There was no use in trying to hold it back anymore; big, hot tears started rolling down his face, and he rested his head on his knees as his body shook with badly contained sobs.

“Oh, Neal…” Elizabeth moved to sit next to him and pulled him close to her, letting him rest his head on her shoulder as he cried. “It’s alright, everything is alright…”

“It’s been a really long time,” he managed. “I’ve had Mozzie and June, but they’re not… it’s not like this—“ He sucked in a breath, trying to regain some control. “Not like it is with Peter, and with you…”

She was rubbing his back the same way Peter had, and her arms were providing the same sense of shelter that his mom’s used to.

“I didn’t want to—to mess things up for you—“

“I know, I know,” she murmured, kissing his head. “But we want you here, Neal. I promise, we want you with us.”

She held him until the crying stopped, which felt like forever to Neal. His chest still ached and his stomach was doing him no favors, but the fear of intruding on lives that shouldn’t involve him was gone. He was welcome here, he was _wanted_ , and that was new and different and he really, really liked how it felt. He liked how family felt.

Elizabeth coaxed him into drinking the rest of his water, and by the time Peter got back he was working on a few saltine crackers.

“Hey, Peter.” Neal’s smile was one of exhaustion, but it was genuine.

Peter smoothed down Neal’s damp hair and kissed his forehead. “Told you I’d be back soon.” He looked over at Elizabeth. “Did he behave, El?”

Elizabeth glanced at Neal for a split-second, like she was telling him that she’d keep what had happened between them, for Neal’s sake. “Very nicely, yes.”

The need to rest again was becoming unavoidable, so Neal closed his eyes and let sleep take over, contenting himself with the fact that he was safe here, that he was with family.

This was exactly where he was supposed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> neal caffrey is just such a beautiful boy and i love torturing beautiful boys in fics so this was bound to happen at some point and there it fucking is i hope you enjoyed my garbage


End file.
